The sight came and went, manifesting in the strangest moments. It wasn't difficult, per se, to have visions of people and places of the past. Sometimes, Gwen could even spot ghosts and spirits … or so they thought. The gift – the sight – had been an endless source of awe for her little brother at the time.
They'd joked and played, searching for clues that corroborated her dreams and visions, testing the limits of the sight by launching the most ridiculous undercover investigations. Mulder and Scully at work; she was the sceptical rusty-haired woman. It matched her colouring after all, while little brother played the devil's advocate.
He'd dubbed her 'the faërie' after an unsuccessful attempt at calling her a witch. But none of it mattered anymore; Gwen had sworn off anything supernatural when her mother died from carbon monoxide intoxication. The broken look on her little brother's face, three years ago, had been the last blow. He didn't accuse, just held her as she cried at the funeral. Still, she knew he wondered why she had allowed it to happen. Why didn't she use her gift at the time? She, that could guess events before they happened?
So Gwen had left college – her language and civilisation studies – and enrolled in the firefighters. Preventing accidents like those who had claimed her mother's life became her purpose. It kept both anger and sadness at bay. And when the grief became too much, she punched a bag into the ground, or played the worries away on her piano until all energy left her body, and exhaustion claimed her.
Gwen had never been good with words, hence her choice to study ancient civilisations. In writing, emotions flowed freely from the book to her heart. But the reverse always was difficult; the young woman didn't allow access to her soul. And even when she wanted it, the words were never enough.
Little brother had chosen another path – he grew up, and chose psychiatry. Pestered her to talk to someone, and relegated all thoughts about the supernatural to that taboo box that none of them ever expected to open.
Until yesterday.
Gwen shuddered, yesterday's fight so vivid. The memory of those unnatural eyes carved in her memory.
Gwen's muscles tensed as the scuffle escalated. It happened, once in a while, that the firemen would be ambushed by bad intentioned youth who only wanted to pick up a fight. This was one of those days. Even though the Captain insisted they'd be trained to fight, Gwen always hesitated to land the first blow.
It wasn't lack of proficiency that stayed her hand, but compassion. Hurting another living being, human or animal, wasn't in her nature. She squared her shoulders nonetheless, because Erik wouldn't be able to hold all three of the thugs by himself. Thank God for little victories – and the British legislation – they were drunk, and only equipped with switchblades.
"I called the station," Erik told her between grit teeth, taking in the situation.
Gwen nodded and turned to the youths. Three guys, two of them barely over fifteen, slurred insults at them. Something about being at the government's behest, or whatnot.
"Let me," she told her colleague.
A woman always seemed less menacing than a firefighter in full gear. Adopting her most soothing tone, Gwen attempted to defuse the situation. To no avail, more insults were hurled, none of them inventive. She lifted an eyebrow, hoping that her calm demeanour would keep those three brats in check. She would reflect later on her gigantic failure.
"Watch out!"
Erik's warning saved her from a deep laceration as she twisted away from the blow aimed at her face. Her bulky colleague bellowed in outrage and jumped into the fray, distracting her opponent long enough for her to land a harsh blow upon his wrist. The blade clanged to the floor and she kicked it away, wrestling the youth to the ground without grace. Her knee landed harshly upon the concrete and she winced – welcome, giant bruise.
"Don't move!" she commander at her attacker.
Erik was doing well, but one against two wasn't fair. Jaw tense with worry, she dug her uninjured knee into the squirming teenager's back and watched as her colleague struggled to keep the damage minimum. Firefighters, more than anyone else, knew how bad a blow to the head could impair someone for life. They respected life, and Erik, despite his more powerful build, tried to keep in mind that breaking an arm, or a leg, could very much send one of those drunk youths into a life of invalidity.
But then … they also needed to protect themselves. Usually, delinquents backed away when they realised their opponents could fight back. But today was no such day, for the third guy – slightly older – was bouncing on the ball of his feet, ready to spring.
"Erik!" Gwen yelled.
Everything happened so fast. The young man attacked and she sprang to her feet to prevent him from slashing Erik's back. At the same time, a loud screeching of tyres tore her eardrums. Startled, the tall teen turned around just in time to catch her. He slashed. Gwen's eyes widened and she balked to avoid his blade.
Someone bellowed her name, a deep, commanding voice, laden with fear. Another voice rose – Stephen, from the night shift. A pressure at her shoulder, a blow to the back and she was sent hurling face first into the pavement. Gwen hunched over, presenting her shoulder first in hopes to roll around – the Captain would be proud. Bone and flesh screamed in pain when it connected with the pavement, and Gwen lost all sense of direction as her body danced with the ground one too many times.
"Ugh," she groaned, disoriented.
"Son of a bitch!" the voice yelled. Then a familiar presence hoovered over her, calling her name once more. But his voice was deeper, almost slurred.
"Gwen!"
A frantic hand upon her shoulder sent jolting pain down her spine and she cried out. There was growl, akin to a wolf's deep rumble. Gwen's eyes shot open just in time to catch the most incredible sight. The Captain had knelt by her side, but his whole body seemed ready to spring. Muscles tense, posture slightly hunched … and his face … his jaw was so tight that she feared for his teeth. Was she dreaming, or did one of his canines overlap his lower lip?
And … something akin to a tattoo adorned his cheeks. Blue stripes that accentuated the sharp cut of his jaw.
The young woman shook her head to clear her mind, the humidity seeping into her hair and freezing her skull. Even though the tension radiating off her Captain was so oppressive that it nearly crushed her, she couldn't help but feel relieved.
"Capt'n," she slurred.
His muscles were so taut, his hand wrapped around her wrist, thumb right over her pulse point. Had his fingers always been so warm, his touch so soothing? Was he shaking, right now, or was it her own arm that trembled in his grasp? Gwen's fingers brushed his wrist and Taisho glanced downwards. She gasped.
Her sharp intake of air was enough to loosen the coil that kept him on his haunches; he bolted, disappearing from her side faster than any man should be able to.
The young woman blinked once. Then twice.
His eyes … she could have sworn his eyes were red.
With a groan, Gwen rolled over. Flaring pain shot up her knee, and she immediately took the weight out of it, hanging in an awkward position as her attention flew to the fight. Her tall Captain had jumped right into the fray, layering one of their teenage thugs before she could even blink. He wasn't the bulkiest; compared to Erik, or even Stephen by his side, his silhouette seemed almost lithe. Yet, he oozed dangerous.
She just knew from the moment she met him that Taishō wasn't a man to be crossed. His aura had settled in her bones at once. And today … today was just a proof of that feeling that always tingled her self-preservation whenever he was near. The Captain's wrath permeated the air as he distributed blows that would have fallen a giant.
If she found him impressive when he taught self-defence, he was now downright magnificent. And deadly. There was something animalistic in the way he fought. The wrath of God unleashed upon a set of three unlucky teenagers that had attacked HIS men.
The Captain was always pretty territorial; he protected his own as if they were family. Better to be on his good side, because the deceptively easy-going attitude only dissimulated the wolf beneath.
"Capt'n!", Erik eventually called.
Shaking like a leaf in the traditional London moist, Gwen frowned. Taishō seemed to have lost all sense of measure. Where was his legendary control in the face of dangerous situations? The strategist that could lay down plans while the world crumbled around them?
The insistent wailing of a police siren tore through the nightly silence.
The Captain froze, panting in the street lights, fists clenched by his side. Only then did Gwen realise he was wearing pyjama pants and a hastily thrown t-shirt, the label of which hung outside his collar? Had he been sleeping in his private quarters when the call came in?
The young woman tested her leg and, finding the joint in satisfactory condition, chanced a few steps to reach for her comrades. She stopped in her tracks when Taishō's head turned around, pining her with a flash of his golden gaze.
He was furious.